


Life Support

by IndigoNight



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Possible Character Death, Misunderstanding, background Bucky/Natasha, but no actual death, mentions of past Steve/Sharon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 00:24:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3916267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is keeping a secret, and Sam is afraid to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Support

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peachchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachchild/gifts).



> Titled after the Sam Smith song of the same name. Written for the [Sam/Steve exchange 2015](http://samstevexchange2015.tumblr.com/) as a gift for [peachchild](http://peachchild.tumblr.com/). Hope you like it :)

"But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security."

Natasha tilted her head at Steve. "So that's where you get it," she commented dryly. 

"Very funny." Steve rolled his eyes, but he couldn't repress a small, tight smile. 

"Like I said, this movie is vital for your education," Sam insisted, stealing a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Steve's lap. 

Natasha smirked and focused back on Bucky's hair. Bucky was sitting in a plush armchair, his back ramrod straight but his hands loose and relaxed in his lap. Natasha was perched on the back of the same chair, her legs braced on either side of Bucky as she studiously braided Bucky's hair, only to unbraid it and start over each time she finished. Sam sat on the closest end of the couch set at an angle to their chair, and Steve sat on Sam's other side. 

After several hectic weeks it was the first opportunity any of them had had to really relax in a while, and they had chosen to do so with a pile of snacks and a movie - National Treasure, which Sam had chosen on the basis that it was a crime the other three had never seen it. 

"This is not even remotely real history," Steve complained. He was slouched on his end of the couch, absently twiddling his phone between his fingers in between occasional mouthfuls of popcorn. 

"I warned you about that," Sam defended. "That's like half the point. Also, some of it is real." 

"Not much." Natasha idly added a complicated twist to Bucky's braid, which managed to hold it in place long enough for her to lean over and snag the bowl of M&M's. 

Bucky leaned back into her fingers when she resumed braiding, munching on a steady string of red vines. "For supposed professionals, these guys are terrible," he commented, watching Sean Bean and his crew with his own critically professional eye. 

"In comparison, the academics are implausibly good," Natasha confirmed with a serious nod.

"First of all, don't knock 'academics'," Sam warned. "Secondly, you're right, that tact team is awful. Where did he find these guys?"

"Also that laser thing he used on the heat sensor doesn't actually work," Bucky commented, his tone a little too casual and nonchalant. 

Sam's head swiveled toward Bucky, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Have you stolen the Declaration of Independence?" He asked, at least half serious. He didn't know what use HYDRA might have had for it, but somehow he wouldn't have put it past them, and there was a lot about Bucky's days at the Winter Soldier that they still didn't know.

Bucky tilted his head, like he had to seriously think about that, a faint frown line between his eyebrows. "No," he decided. "But I could if I wanted to."

Sam glanced at Steve, waiting for a horrified reaction, but Steve just nodded gravely. "Their security measures have been updated since this movie came out," he said, "but it would be possible."

"Do not steal the Declaration of Independence," Sam told the room at large, because he saw the way Natasha's eyes had brightened consideringly. "There is not really a treasure map on it, and you will go to jail forever." 

Natasha shrugged innocently. "If they caught us," she pointed out. "The Fort Meade thing worked out."

"Fort Meade?" Bucky asked and Natasha patted his shoulder. 

"Short story, but I'll tell you about it later," she assured him. Bucky nodded and focused back on the screen. 

Sam ostensibly kept his attention on the movie, but he was watching Steve out of the corner of his eye. He'd expected Steve to be all over National Treasure, complaining about the crazy conspiracy theories and analyzing the implausibilities, but his contributions to the conversation had been subdued and distracted at best. Sam knew he was tired, they all were, but It was more than that. Steve's fingers were constantly fiddling with his phone in his lap and though his eyes were directed at the screen, his gaze was a thousand miles away. 

Steve and Sam were both so busy pretending to pay attention to the movie, that they both nearly jumped out of their skins when Steve's phone went off. Steve leapt to his feet without even checking the caller ID on the phone. "Sorry, I got-" he gestured distractedly with the phone, heading for the hallway toward the elevator without a backward glance. 

Natasha, who was closest to the remote, paused the movie while they all watched Steve go, expressions ranging from confusion - Bucky - to suspicion - Natasha - to sad resignation - Sam - respectively. 

"You don't have to pause it," Sam said as he listened to the distant elevator doors slide shut behind Steve. "He's probably not coming back." He sort of regretting his words when Natasha's head swiveled around to level her look if suspicious analysis on him instead of the empty doorway. 

"What was that?" She asked, something vaguely accusatory in her tone. 

Sam shrugged, purposefully slouching further down into the cushions. "Don't know," he said, which was only mostly true. 

"Who ever it was, he called her Sharon," Bucky supplied helpfully. It had probably not been an accident that Steve didn't actually answer the call until he was out of Sam and Natasha's earshot, but he sometimes forgot how enhanced Bucky's hearing was. 

"I didn't realize he was still talking to Sharon," Natasha said mildly, but there was nothing mild about the frown in her eyes. Sam had, but not because Steve told him, which was a big part of why he really did not want to talk about it. She'd called one morning the week before while Steve was in the shower; Sam hadn't answered the call, and he hadn't said anything to Steve about it either. 

While Sam was avoiding both the question and Natasha's probing gaze, Bucky looked between the two of them, obviously sensing their underlying tension. "Who is Sharon?" He asked. Bucky had never met Sharon, by the time he'd pulled himself together enough to let Sam and Steve find him and bring him in, they'd already relocated to New York with the Avengers and Sharon had chosen to stay in DC with the CIA. 

"The girl Steve dumped for Sam," Natasha answered glibly, not taking her eyes off of Sam. 

"He did not-" Sam spluttered in protest. "They went on three dates."

"Three and a half," Natasha correctly. "The last one he cut short so that he could go confess his feelings to you."

Bucky snorted, somewhere between incredulous and amused. "Steve ditched a girl in the middle of a date for you?"

"He apologized and took her home first," Sam said, indignant on Steve's behalf. "And yes, they still talk sometimes." 

"Since when?" Sam wasn't sure when this had turned into an interrogation, but he knew that tone in Natasha's voice and he instinctively balked at it.

"Since I don't know. I'm not his keeper." In a desperate bid to end the conversation, Sam grabbed the remote and unpaused the movie. 

"Well, that explains the couch thing," Natasha said. She'd focused her gaze back on the TV screen, her fingers falling back into Bucky's hair, casual and tactical to give Sam the impression that she was backing off. 

Sam knew what she was doing, he knew exactly what she was doing, but he fell into the trap she'd laid anyway. "What couch thing?" He asked with resignation. 

"The fact that the two of you managed to sit on the same piece of furniture for a full-" she paused, checking the time on the TV screen- "forty minutes without one of you ending up in the other's lap."

Sam had a vague sense that he should be embarrassed, but Steve was a very tactile person, and Sam had honestly never been inclined to complain. 

"She's right," Bucky said, nodding seriously. "Something is up with you guys, has been for at least a week. Steve's been sleeping in his own bed, alone." Bucky's rooms were across the hall from Steve's, and it somehow didn't surprise Sam at all that he kept an eye on Steve's movements. 

"We sleep alone all the time," Sam defended. 

"No, you don't," Bucky's voice was bland, stating fact. 

Sam shook his head in frustration. "I'm not having this conversation," he said. Bucky was watching him seriously, and there was something like pity in Natasha's eyes. 

"Sam..." Natasha started. 

"You guys are making a big deal out of nothing." Sam tried to keep his voice firm; he was not in denial, he just really did not want to talk about it, because talking about it meant thinking about it and he may have not been in denial, but he was doing a hell of a lot of avoiding the issue. "We're both tired, we've both been busy. So he's talking to Sharon, so what? He can have friends. He doesn't have to tell me everything."

They were all silent for several minutes, and now both Bucky and Natasha looked pitying.

"Steve wouldn't cheat," Bucky said firmly, voicing the thing that they had all been trying not to think. 

"No, of course not," Natasha agreed with absolute conviction. 

Sam sighed, looking down at his hands folded in his lap. "But that doesn't mean he doesn't regret picking me," he finished quietly for her. They'd all known where the conversation was going; Sam had been thinking it for a week, but that didn't make it hurt any less to say out loud. He couldn't look at Bucky and Natasha, he didn't want to hear the reassurances that they were trying to think up, didn't want to see the sympathetic looks they were shooting him. "I'm not really in the mood for a movie," he said. He pushed himself up from the couch, avoiding looking at them as he headed a little too quickly for the door. "See you guys around."

**************  
Sam should have gone to talk to Steve. He knew that. He knew that the longer he let thing fester the worse he would feel. But knowing what he should do, and actually doing it, were two entirely different things.

So he didn’t go talk to Steve. He went to the gym. He worked out until his legs shook and his head spun. After he showered, he did not flee the Tower, but he did go run every errand he could think of to do, managing to run himself all over the city. It took long enough that by the time he got back to the Tower it had gone quiet, or at least as quiet as the Tower ever got. Sam went up to his apartment, the apartment that he barely ever set foot in. Too keyed up to sleep, he cleaned everything he could find to clean, which was not nearly enough. 

All too soon, the only thing left that he could think of to do was file the reports that he’d been procrastinating on. Except, to do that, he needed his computer. His computer, which was in Steve’s apartment, along with… most of his clothes, most of his books, and all of his DVDs. 

So with great reluctance he found himself outside of the door to Steve’s apartment. He hesitated, his hand outstretched, as he considered asking JARVIS if Steve was home. Except, he wasn’t sure what he wanted the answer to be. He knew he couldn’t avoid Steve forever, but it was so much easier than facing the heartbreak of being dumped by Captain America.

He compromised; he didn’t ask JARVIS if Steve was home, but he did open the door as quietly as he could. The apartment was dark and quiet, so Sam eased the door closed behind himself and proceeded. As he looked around the main rooms he realized they were messier than he'd ever seen them; neither Sam nor Steve were neat freaks exactly, but they'd both been in the military for a sense of order and cleanliness to stick around. 

Sam had left his laptop in the bedroom, so that was the direction he headed. He felt stupid sneaking around the apartment where he had been unofficially but realistically living for several months, but he still couldn't be certain if Steve was there or not. Or at least, not until he reached the bedroom and found Steve fast asleep. 

Steve was curled up on his side, still fully dressed except for his shoes. He was laying on top of the bedding with one hand stretched out across Sam's empty half of the bed, and the other resting on the pillow next to his head, clutching his phone.

For a moment, Sam very nearly crawled into bed next to Steve. The bed looked so warm and soft, and Steve… Steve looked lonely. Sam took a step toward the bed, but his foot caught on something and he stumbled forward, just catching himself on the foot of the bed. He froze, holding his breath, but Steve just sniffed and hugged his arms closer to his chest.

It was a duffle bag. Not Steve’s go bag, not any bag he might have prepared for a mission. It looked like it was only half packed, tossed aside carelessly so that its contents spilled out; it was full of civilian clothes, sketchbook, and other daily essentials. It was the kind of bag he’d take on vacation. 

The bottom of Sam’s stomach dropped out. A part of him knew that it was stupid, that this could mean anything, or nothing. But the rest of him didn’t care. The rest of him wanted to grab his laptop and get out of there as fast as he could.

He disentangled himself from the duffle bag. His laptop was on the chair that they kept in the corner of the room, for no real purpose other than to collect odd pieces of dirty clothes and other odds and ends. He reached for the laptop but froze at the sound of a sniffling-shifting from the bed behind him. 

Sam hadn't turned to look, but Steve's sleepy inquiry of "Sam?" didn't surprise him at all. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you," Sam said, keeping his voice low, half in hopes that Steve would simply roll over, go back to sleep, and attribute this to a hazy dream later. 

Instead, Steve sat up. "What time is it?" He asked blearily. 

"Late. Don't worry about it, I just need my laptop then I'll-" Something niggled at the back of Sam's mind, something he found himself unwilling to acknowledge. His plan had been to get in and get out quickly, but Steve was sitting there all sleep tousled and looking so deceptively innocent and anger was buzzing under Sam's skin, anger and hurt and betrayal. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was immature, but Sam _wanted_ to fight, he wanted to have an all out screaming match, he wanted to rile Steve up and make Steve tell him what had gone wrong, where along the way he'd lost Steve's interest. 

"Missed you at the gym today." Sam kept his voice even, but it was tight with the anger bubble under his surface. After Steve had ducked out on the movie that morning, he'd known instinctively that Steve wouldn't show up, but they had had loose plans to spar that afternoon. 

Steve blinked, halfway through running a distracted hand through his wayward hair. "Were we- shit, Sam, I'm sorry, I-" he paused, breaking off. "I forgot, I'm sorry."

Sam didn't want to accept the apology, no matter how sincere it sounded. And he certainly did not want to notice the bloodshot redness of Steve's eyes, or the way his shoulders were slumped. Instead, he kicked out at the duffle bag on the floor, with a little more force than was necessary to draw Steve's attention to it. "Going somewhere?" He asked, crossing his arms over his chest, closing himself off. His posture was confrontational, almost aggressive, but he didn't care. 

Steve's eyes flicked toward the bag and his whole body tightened. Sam watched as Steve's hand clenched around his phone, then loosened again. Steve's eyes flicked down to the phone, his thumb triggering the lock screen which he stared at for a beat before he shifted his gaze back to Sam. He looked tired, and sad, but he didn't look guilty like Sam might have expected, and he wasn't fighting like Sam wanted him to. "I don't think so," Steve said quietly. 

"Well don't stay on my account." Sam all but spit the words, and it was stupid because he didn't mean them, he really didn't. He wanted Steve to stay, wanted it so badly that he could hear how his voice was getting increasingly both louder and more irrational. "I'm sure you've got better people to do anyway."

"Sam-?" It was a question, only half spoken because Steve didn't seem to know entirely what he was asking. His mouth was twisted in confusion and his eyes were so soft, soft and sad and Sam wanted to hate his stupid fucking face, but that was impossible. 

Sam's shoulders slumped, the fight in him dying out. "Just tell me what's going on, Steve," he said quietly. "Let's just get it over with. If you're leaving, fine, I won't stop you, but just... Tell me what went wrong."

Steve was frowning deeply now, his head tilted like Sam was a puzzle he couldn't figure out. "Sam, I'm not-" Steve started, but he changed tracks. "Where do you think I'm going?"

"I know you've been talking to Sharon," Sam had to grit his teeth to get the words out. 

Steve visibly flinched. His shoulders curled inward and he sat up fully, shifting to rest his feet on the floor. He sat still and stiff for a moment before his head slumped to rest in his hands. 

Whatever anger Sam had left fled at the sight of Steve's bowed head. Sam's entire body softened and he sat carefully on the bed beside Steve. "Steve?" He asked quietly. "What's going on?"

Steve took a breath that made his entire body shudder. "Peggy," he said, the word coming out of him like a punch to the gut. "She, uh, she's not doing so good."

Shame and guilt pushed Sam's stomach straight to his toes. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. It wasn't nearly enough, but this wasn't the time to press his own issues. He wanted to reach out to Steve, to offer him some physical comfort, but Steve was so tightly curled in on himself Sam wasn't sure his touch would be welcomed. 

"She had a scare last week, something with her heart-" Steve's voice cracked and broke. Sam instinctively reached out and wrapped an arm around him. After a moment, Steve melted into him. "She's doing better now, but it... It's only a matter of time."

Sam felt awful. Of course, he should have known. Steve and Sharon had gotten along alright, but the only real thing they had in common was Peggy. 

"I don't know what to do," Steve said, his voice so small and pained that it wrenched Sam's heart. "There's nothing I can do."

Sam swallowed, wrapping his arms tighter around Steve because there was nothing else he could do either. Steve pressed into him, his head coming to rest on Sam's shoulder, his back curved as he attempted to bury himself in Sam's chest. 

"Steve?" Sam asked quietly after several minutes. "Why didn't you tell me?" He knew it was an unfair question, he knew this wasn't about him, that it shouldn't be about him. But he had to ask. 

Steve sat up, pulling away from Sam but not looking at him. "I... meant to," he admitted, but it was pathetic. "I just... Talking about it would have made it real, and I wasn't ready for that." He glanced sideways at Sam, his eyes wet, begging Sam to understand. 

Of course Sam understood. Sam understood more than he could say in words. "That's perfectly understandable," he assured, inadequate as it was. 

Steve shook his head. "It's stupid and childish," he refuted. "It didn't change anything, and it's not going to. I just... I _hate_ this." Steve's hands clenched helplessly in his lap. 

Gently, Sam reached out and took Steve's hands in his own. It took several minutes during which Sam stroked Steve's knuckles, his fingers cajoling and soothing in ways his words couldn't be. Eventually, Steve's fingers uncurled and wrapped around Sam's, threading them together as Steve took a bracing breath. 

"So when are you leaving?" Sam asked, letting his thumb trace along the soft skin at the inside of Steve's wrist. 

"I'm not." Steve swallowed, his throat working around the words. "Her, Peggy's memory is pretty much gone. With how, uh, fragile she is right now, Sharon doesn't think it's a good idea. She said the shock of seeing me, you know, alive might be too much for Peggy right now."

This had to be killing Steve, to know that not only could he not do anything to help Peggy, he couldn't even _be_ there. "What can I do?" Sam asked, just as helpless because he knew there wasn't really anything he could do. 

"You... You being here helps." Steve's gaze was fixed on the carpet beneath their feet, but Sam knew he wasn't really seeing it; his mind and heart were so far away that his words came slow and uneven, like they had to be dragged up from a great depth. "I thought I wanted to be alone, but-" Steve's voice cracked and Sam's hand tightened around Steve's, grounding and reassuring. 

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised. "Come on, it's late." Sam stood, pulling Steve up with him so that he could tease Steve out of his jeans and t-shirt. Steve didn't resist, but his body was limp and heavy, letting Sam do most of the work, not that Sam minded. He left Steve's shorts on and gently pushed him back onto the bed. 

Sam was already dressed for bed in soft sweat pants and a well worn t-shirt, but he stripped off the shirt before crawling into bed beside Steve. There wasn't a chance in hell that they were going to have sex, but Sam had a feeling that skin-to-skin contact might help ground Steve in the present and pull him out of the black hole of preemptive grief Steve had fallen into.

Sam settled himself behind Steve, pressing his chest to Steve's back and wrapping an arm around his waist. He tucked his face into the back of Steve's neck, dropping a soft kiss to Steve's shoulder. But Steve made sound like a wounded animal and shifted. He rolled over so that he was facing Sam, but he didn't look at Sam, instead pressing forward to bury his face in Sam's shoulder. 

Sam adjusted readily, wrapping both arms around Steve's broad shoulders and holding him close. He didn't say anything when Steve's shoulders started to shake, or when a small sob escaped Steve. He didn't that Steve's tears were making his chest wet and cold. Sam just held Steve and let him cry, because there was nothing else he could do. 

Eventually Steve calmed down, but he didn't pull away. He sniffed softly, rolling his head so that his cheek rested on Sam's chest instead of squashing his nose into it. "I got you all messy," he mumbled thickly. 

"Disgusting," Sam teased. He snagged a tissue out of the box on the nightstand and handed it to Steve. Politely, Steve cleaned off Sam's chest first, before wiping his own face. Sam let his fingers wander up the curve of Steve's back and shoulders and into the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "You need a haircut," he mused absently. Now that Steve was calm, Sam could relax into the peaceful quiet of the room, idly watching the shadows that played across the ceiling. 

"I thought you liked it longer," Steve countered. 

"I like having something to hold onto," Sam agreed. "But you've got to keep up that clean cut, all American image, don't you?" It was teasing and sarcastic; Steve cared very little about the image that nostalgia and propaganda had given him during his seventy year absence. "Besides," Sam added, "you're gonna need to look good when you go see your girl."

"Sam, I told you, I'm not-"

"You need to." Sam cut him off, but his voice was gentle and his arms tightened around Steve. "Wait a few weeks maybe. It was just a scare, you said she's getting stronger again. And even if she doesn't see you, Steve, you need to see her. You'll regret it forever if you don't."

Steve sighed, but the corners of his lips were quirked up as he pressed a to the hollow of Sam's throat. "I love you." The words were little more than a whisper, muffled by Sam's skin, but they were soft, and warm, and genuine. It wasn't the first time Steve had said it, but it still send a warm shiver through Sam. "Thank you, for... for being here."

"Any time," Sam said, with as much sincerity as he could physically force out of his too tight chest. "There's nowhere I'd rather be." He pressed a kiss to Steve's forehead, breathing in Steve's musky scent. 

After a moment of quiet, Steve pulled back enough to tilt his head up and look at Sam. "Did you really think I was going to leave you for Sharon?" He asked, his expression more amused than insulted. 

"No," Sam denied, an utterly insincere lie that he knew Steve would see right through. "But Natasha might."

Steve snorted indelicately and rolled his eyes. "Natasha needs to stop meddling in my love life," he complained. 

"At least she's backed off some since she got a love life of her own," Sam mused. 

"I'm in a stable, committed relationship," Steve groaned. "What more does she want?" He buried his face back in Sam's chest, his shoulders shaking again but this time with muted laughter. 

"Oh, so we're stable now, are we?" Sam teased. "Next thing you know we'll be boring. Scheduling sex for every other Tuesday."

"Life with you could never be boring," Steve countered, his laughter fading as he met Sam's eyes seriously. "I missed my chance once. I'm not risking that again; this time I'm going to make the most of it."

Sam swallowed, the weight and intensity of Steve's words settling in his chest, but it didn't feel like a burden; it was a gift. "I love you, Steve Rogers," he declared, though his chest was tight and those simple, overused words didn't feel like enough. 

Steve leaned in and kissed him, long and deep, until they were both breathless and panting. When they finally broke apart, Steve settled back down to let his head rest on Sam's chest again; Steve was much lighter and brighter than he had been in days, but the grief still lay heavy on him and it was late. So they lay quietly, wrapped up in each other's arms until their breath evened out and the room went quiet again. 

"I'll call Sharon again in the morning," Steve said quietly, "talk to her about coming for a visit next week."

"I think that's a good idea," Sam agreed neutrally. 

"Will you come with me?" There was a hint of hesitancy to his voice, a fragile hopefulness that he had to know was unnecessary; he had to know the question itself was unnecessary, but it warmed Sam's heart to be asked anyway. 

"I go where you go, Cap," he promised and Steve grinned. "Now get some rest."

"Yes sir," Steve hummed. He pressed one more soft kiss to Sam's chest and closed his eyes. 

Sam ran his fingers through Steve's hair, his blunt nails dragging lightly over Steve's scalp, until Steve went limp and boneless, his breath evening out into a slow, quiet snore. Carefully, without jostling Steve, Sam fished out his phone. Angling the screen away from Steve he typed a brief text to Natasha. _You were wrong._

A moment later his screen lit up with her reply. _Got you to talk to him, didn't I?_

Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. _Mind your own relationship._ She responded with a kissy face emojie and Sam put away his phone. He settled himself back down onto the pillows, letting himself sink into Steve's warm body as the weight of sleep fell over him.


End file.
